What I Would Give You
by Lli
Summary: A series of short vignettes set both during and after the War of the Ring; the thoughts of different characters on life, love, happiness, pain, and, above all, sacrifice.
1. Forever Young

Forever Young  
  
It is a sad thing to be immortal. To be forced to stand apart and watch loved ones die, living things poisoned and beautiful ones sullied. Forever wishing you could give them your revered ever after, your never changing youth.  
  
Men, in their continuing blindness, have always wished to live forever, never having to face the unknown realm of death. With all their knowledge and self-proclaimed wisdom, they still cannot see how we suffer.  
  
You do not have to live forever to live a full life. Death is simply another friend met along the way. But I suppose it is easier for me to say so as I do not have to meet him.  
  
I did once, detest death. Not so much due to my own fate as to that of my dearest friend. He was not cursed with everlasting youth. I raged against it for weeks while he slowly faded away. The injustice, taking someone so deserving of life. But this friend himself, as he lay on his deathbed, said that he did not want life eternal. He had lived a beautiful life, seen all the world, beyond what any of his race has ever seen before. He had no regrets. He had no wish to be tied to this world any longer. He would miss it, miss me, but he would look back on it, if indeed he could, with love. Of course, he said to me, it is always worse for those left behind.  
  
And oh how it is. I live in the most beautiful land in all the worlds, undying and forever young. But outside of this paradise, somewhere, I know daughters, sons, mothers, fathers are dying, precious things are being lost beyond all hope of recovery. And the ones left behind are slowly being torn apart by the grief. Like I was and ever would be. At least one day they will die as well, fade away, leaving all their sorrows behind them. But I, I would bear all my memories, beautiful and terrible alike for eternity. So how I envy them. And envy, as always, like sorrow and despair, sours my days and steals sleep, my one escape, from me.  
  
But now, here I stand, looking far away across the ocean. From my place on the cliffs I fancy I can see my old home. I will let all my grief go, I will not have to bear it forever. For though I am immortal, I am not indestructible. I have lived my life without regrets and refuse to sully it with wretchedness. I will see my dear friend again soon enough. 


	2. West Across the Ocean

Like dull, dry pebbles on a beach, the tiles slipped out from under her feet, trying to tumble away through through the night. Sometimes she slid with them, but never for very long. She had somewhere to go. She wouldn't be swept away just yet. Ever upwards she climbed, fitting her fingers into cracks no human eye would ever see. Just as well.  
  
From up here on the roof she could see all the way to the ocean. West across the ocean. She tore her gaze away. She was never to go there, and there is no comfort in fading memories. Just like she would be soon. Nothing more then a fading whisper winding through dying trees.  
  
She was, however, not overly sad because of this. No, the loss of her life was nothing to what she had already cried for. She wouldn't waste tears on something so redundant. It had, after all, been her choice to stay here and she did not regret it.  
  
Below her, trees rustled with an invisible wind, murmuring amongst themselves. She was like them now, simply waiting for the wind to blow her away.  
  
Tomorrow, she decided, tomorrow she would leave. Leave for the land of her childhood. If she could not die with the one she loved she would die hidden in the heart-wrenchingly beautiful remnants of her people. At least her soul would be among friends.  
  
Not so high above her now, hung a sharp sliver of silver moon, beckoning to her, washing her with the glittering light of bitter-beautiful memories. She clutched them to her, weaving her way through the stars. Always reaching up, up into the night.  
  
The moon welcomed her, dipping to pick her up, easing her sore arms. She lay down gratefully. She was tired and worn, she had lived a hundred life times and she wanted to finally go to sleep. One last time she looked to the west, whispering it goodbye. Goodbye in her own tongue.  
  
Nemaarie. 


	3. One Last Selfishness

One Last Selfishness  
  
The sea reflects the pale morning sun, illuminating, with dancing faery lights, the bow of the silent elven ship. The calm and serenity that are the shadows of all elves, prevails even now while they all sleep below. And so, I am comforted, though my tears still fall into the rippling sea.  
  
I do not suppose that I shall do anything but cry for quite a while longer, for I have not done it in many years. It is, perhaps, a foolish thing to do as it brings me nothing but exhaustion and swollen eyes. But exhaustion and discomfort have been my companions for so long now that I pay them no heed and will gladly submit to them in return for the chance to bare my soul for a little while.  
  
Were I disposed to be angry, I am not as it I have no greater disgust then that of my dislike of violence, I would rage of how it is so unfair. Unfair that I, after all I have done, must leave the land and people I love. How it is unfair that my home rejects me, and that I unwillingly return the sentiment. Not being able to stand the place you love above all is a sad thing indeed. But it is no one's fault that I cannot stay and I have no right to lay blame on anyone but myself.  
  
I suppose I should be happy beyond belief, grateful to no end. And though I will be ever grateful, and though I am happy, somewhere inside of me, I cannot help but look back and wish. And I suppose that that is quite selfish of me, but I am not perfect and cannot ignore the pain as my heart is torn in two. But I suppose I am being overly melodramatic.  
  
The sun is hidden now, behind rolling white clouds. The sea is darker, greener, but ever flickering and swaying to a silent song. It brings back grotesque memories I almost wish I had refused. Almost.  
  
People are coming up on deck now, going about whatever it is they need to do. Their gaze studiously slides past me. I try to scrub away the tears with my sleeve: I don't want them to think me ungrateful. All I succeed in doing is feeling ridiculously infantile, and making the tears more insistent. The jacket smells of home. I give up, sighing, and lean on the rail. You couldn't see the sea from my old home.  
  
Someone has laid a hand on my shoulder. I needn't turn around, I know who it is. There are few people aboard this ship who as I do, but he is one of them, though he is the White Pilgrim, immortal and powerful beyond belief. I know he too misses the grass, the fields, little rivers. I lean into the hand.  
  
Up until now I have cried silently. But I have so many things to cry for that I simply cannot hold them back any longer. Let them hear my sobs. I am sure they will forgive this one last selfishness.  
  
I tilt my head and look to the east. One last time. Through my tears, the rippling sea could almost be the green, green grass of my home, shining under the sun and dancing in the wind. 


	4. Simplicity

Simplicity  
  
Most people, upon first coming across us, might think us quite simple. And, truth be told, we are. Not simple by way of useless and empty- headed (though I readily admit we, like all other races, have our idiots) but simple by way of enjoying life simply because we are alive, beauty because it is beautiful, not because it is expensive, and little things like peace, quiet and happiness. Things which are oft looked upon as childlike and useless by those wiser then us. But I would rather be free and naïve then poisoned and powerful. You do not need great wealth and power to be happy. Which, I suppose, is why I am here now, instead of working in the fields like I should be.  
  
From up here atop my hillock, I can see-well, I should like to say I see all the way to him, however, I can barely see the Old Forest. But I am looking east, which is where he has gone off to, and I suppose it is as good as I'll get.  
  
Because it is spring, everything is quite lovely and lush, more so then usual even. Up on the Hill his garden is alight with beautiful colours that I'm sure only he could induce. They bloom as though by doing so they will shine bright enough that he will see them and come home. They most certainly do not bloom for their current masters.  
  
People say, in the usual show of criticism when faced with love, that I am throwing myself away on him; especially when he has been gone so long with that beloved (or crazy, depending on who you talk to) master of his, that I should find myself a nice, well-off lad, and not be bothered over a gardener. Which I think is quite silly. Is there anyone kinder or better off then those who can coax life and beauty into the world? Who are so loyal as to follow their best friend anywhere in the world, despite everything? I think not.  
  
I do not take their opinions to heart for I know that though we are a simple, loving race we can still be blind and therefore that they will never understand how I love him. Or why, when all hope seems lost I still wait for him.  
  
And so, they will ever continue to give me fruitless advice falling on deaf ears, shaking their heads at my folly. While I, in my childlike naivety will ever continue to look east from atop my hill, knowing he will come home to me if only I wait long enough. 


End file.
